Free Web NovelChapter 730: The Fate of Rebels
Those who were quick-witted enough to notice the first wave of deserters followed suit. The sight of nobles abandoning the field, vanishing into the madness, only hastened the inevitable collapse.
Even before the Roman cavalry reached them, the rebel army had already begun to unravel.
While pockets of resistance still held in key sectors of the formation, their efforts were futile. Giovanni Junior’s heavy cavalry crashed into them with the force of a tidal wave, cutting through flesh and steel alike, tearing a path of blood and shattered limbs. The carefully arranged formations of the rebels crumbled like dry parchment beneath the hooves of the Roman warhorses. What had seemed formidable from a distance was proving to be little more than a paper wall against an iron storm.
At first, Giovanni Junior had anticipated some resistance—at the very least, a high casualty rate among his men. But the moment his cavalry breached the front lines, all cohesion among the rebels dissolved. The once-steady ranks of men suddenly turned to a panicked flock of sheep facing a pack of ravenous lions. Their swords, once symbols of defiance, were now nothing more than useless sticks in their trembling hands. Fear took hold, and they ran.
But they had failed to account for what lay behind them.
A kilometer-wide river stretched at their backs, a silent and unforgiving barrier to their retreat.
As the Roman cavalry continued pressing from the front, crushing and trampling anyone who hesitated, the chaotic mass of rebels surged backward—only to find themselves staring at the cold, unyielding waters. Terror filled their eyes as realisation dawned upon them, but there was no stopping. The sheer momentum of the panicked soldiers behind them forced those in the front to move forward, whether they wanted to or not.
Some hesitated at the river’s edge, grasping at any hope of escape, only to be shoved forward by the desperate mob behind them. The choice was no longer theirs—either they leaped into the water or were crushed beneath the boots of their own comrades.
For many, the river was a death sentence.
Most of these men had never lived by a river, nor had they ever learned to swim. Farmers and foot soldiers alike, they had spent their lives bound to the land, not the water. Worse still, their armor—once their greatest protection—now turned into a death shroud, dragging them beneath the surface like an anchor. The far shore, the promise of safety in Hungarian lands, felt like an impossible dream, a distance that stretched into eternity.
Giovanni Junior, observing the chaos, raised his hand to halt his troops. There was no need to continue the assault—the rebels were already broken. Instead, he ordered his men to withdraw slightly, maintaining a controlled perimeter around the battlefield. His archers kept up a steady rain of arrows, ensuring that any who tried to break free in another direction met a swift end. Cavalry units charged in calculated strikes, keeping the pressure on the fleeing rebels, further dividing their forces into smaller, scattered clusters.
Yet amidst the carnage, Giovanni’s voice rang out over the battlefield, strong and clear.
"Those who surrender will be spared! Lay down your arms, and you shall live!"
The choice was theirs—die by the sword, drown in the river, or surrender and live.
...
As the sun dipped beyond the horizon, the sky was bathed in hues of deep crimson and gold, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the carnage that had unfolded. The last rays of daylight glinted off the sluggish currents of the river, where the water, once clear, now carried the swollen corpses of the fallen. Bloated and lifeless, they drifted aimlessly, some tangled in the reeds, others gently rocking with the current as if caught in an eternal slumber. The sickly stench of decay had already begun to rise, mixing with the metallic scent of blood, a pungent reminder of the battle that had transpired.
The emperor arrived with his infantry just before dawn, his boots sinking into the damp earth as he beheld the grim scene before him. Thousands of men knelt in the mud, their faces smeared with dirt and dried tears, their hands placed firmly behind their heads. Some trembled, barely able to control their breathing, while others sat motionless, their gazes hollow—emptied of all fight, of all defiance.
The battlefield was eerily silent, save for the occasional whimper of a wounded man and the distant, ghostly creak of armor shifting against lifeless bodies. Torches flickered along the ranks of the Roman legions, their glow casting long shadows across the captives, who huddled together in fear, waiting for their fate to be decided.
The young emperor, though triumphant, felt the bile rise in his throat as he took in the gruesome sight before him. The swollen corpses drifting in the river, the mangled bodies strewn across the battlefield, and the thick, coppery stench of death in the air—it was a scene unlike anything he had ever witnessed. His stomach churned, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to endure. This was the reality of war, the weight of rulership, and he could not afford to falter.
Summoning his strength, Leo rode towards his elder brother, Giovanni Junior, who was still overseeing the battlefield, ensuring discipline among the troops. The moment their eyes met, the tension between them melted away, replaced by the exhilaration of victory.
"Well done," Leo breathed, gripping his brother’s shoulders. "Thank you, my brother."
Giovanni, flushed with excitement, his face still streaked with sweat and dust, embraced his younger brother tightly. Their laughter rang out amidst the silence of the battlefield, a rare moment of unburdened joy between two brothers who had fought, bled, and now triumphed together. They spun in circles like children, basking in the glory of their first great military conquest. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com
"We did it!" Giovanni grinned, his voice still hoarse from battle cries.
Leo met his gaze with equal fervor, his eyes shining with pride and relief. But their moment of celebration was soon interrupted.
"Your Majesty," Cerberus approached with a grave expression, his towering frame casting a long shadow in the dimming light. "The captured nobles of Serbia and Bosnia request an audience with you."
Leo’s smile faded instantly. He scoffed, his tone turning cold. "They are still alive?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The emperor’s face darkened. "Then they will wait. I have no patience for traitors. They ceased to be nobles the moment they raised their banners against me. Imprison them. I will deal with them later."
Cerberus bowed, acknowledging the order. The matter was settled.
Suddenly, Giovanni’s demeanor shifted, his usual disciplined composure returning. "Your Majesty," he said, voice firm. "With the major enemy forces here crushed, we must not forget our troubles in the east. The Turks are advancing. The old general holds the line, but for how much longer? I request your permission to take command of all cavalry forces and lead them to Anatolia. We must reinforce him before it’s too late."
Leo studied his brother carefully. The urgency in Giovanni’s voice was undeniable, but so was the risk. The Serbian and Bosnian territories were not yet fully secured. The aftermath of this rebellion would require careful handling.
Giovanni sensed his hesitation and pressed on. "I know the situation here is still fragile, and I know the dangers of leaving now. But trust in me, my brother—this is urgent. If we delay, we may lose everything in the east."
Leo exhaled sharply, then placed a hand on Giovanni’s shoulder. "Go, my brother. Take what you need. Save our eastern borders. I have full faith in you."
Giovanni nodded, his determination unwavering. Without another word, he turned on his heel, calling for his lieutenants. "Gather all the cavalry! Pursue the fleeing rebels for three days—no more. After that, assemble at Nikomedia! Infantry first and fourth regiments will embark immediately. Inform Constantinople that we require a fleet to cross the straits!"
His officers snapped to attention, relaying the orders with swift efficiency. The battlefield still reeked of blood, yet Giovanni wasted no time. He and his Bulgarian cavalry corps leaped onto their mounts, galloping off at breakneck speed to reorganise the logistics for the long march ahead.
Meanwhile, as the sun rose over the charred remains of the battlefield, Emperor Leo VII began his march northward.
The rebels had never expected this outcome.
They had raised their banners in defiance, confident that their sheer numbers and the turmoil of war would force the emperor into a stalemate. At worst, they believed they would fall in battle, but not without inflicting such heavy losses that Leo would be forced to the negotiating table, granting them their freedom—or even greater dominion.
But they were wrong.
Their vast army lay in ruins, their nobles captured, their holdings in ashes. They had nothing left.
Now, as the emperor’s banners rose above the mountains, his legions marching into Serbia and Bosnia, the people of these lands stood in silence. Heads bowed, eyes lowered, they dared not speak as the conqueror passed through their villages.
The fate of their nations was no longer theirs to decide.
